


Nightfall

by writingisacurse



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bondage, Cutting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Knifeplay, Mild Gore, Not my finest hour, POV Third Person, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader-Insert, Sadism, Sexual Violence, Threesome - F/M/M, Torture, Torture Porn, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:14:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28596798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingisacurse/pseuds/writingisacurse
Summary: Ramsay likes to watch Damon make pretty girls dance.
Relationships: Damon Dance-for-Me/Original Female Character(s), Ramsay Bolton/Damon Dance-for-Me, Ramsay Bolton/Original Female Character(s), Ramsay Bolton/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Nightfall

**Author's Note:**

> As I'm sure you've gathered from the tags, this isn't a happy fic and won't have a happy ending, heed the warnings and read at your own discretion, this fic is a reader insert where the reader is brutally tortured and then dies, so if you can't handle that, don't read it. 
> 
> I'm rotten inside from writing this so...enjoy :S

She woke up tied to a table. 

It was only her arms and chest tied down, and for this, despite everything else, she was grateful. Having her legs free meant being able to kick when whomever had brought her here came back for her. 

The room was dark, so dark she could barely see the ceiling. No natural light seeped in from anywhere, so she had to assume they had put her in the dungeons. Her head couldn't move very much to see her surroundings, nothing revealed to her except the silhouette of a wooden cross behind her, and a door set into the wall in front of her. 

She couldn't tilt her head down enough to see properly, but she could feel the ropes tied tightly around her bare chest, crisscrossing around her breasts and binding her flat to the table. Her arms were similarly bound, the rough edges of the rope digging into her soft flesh whenever she tried to squirm. 

When she felt the table rock slightly, she froze. If the table fell sideways while she was still tied to it, her arm would be crushed beneath it. So she stopped moving, and waited tensely for anything to happen. A sound, the door opening, a rat scurrying across the stone floor- anything. 

At first waking up in her predicament had been jarring and confusing, but as the quiet set in and her mind had time to wander, she found it less so. She had been serving for the bastard of the Dreadfort for a little over two moons now, although calling him that to his face was the equivalent of a death sentence. 

Ramsay Bolton was not known for being a very forgiving master, but she figured out quickly if her head was kept down and she didn't spill anything or speak before being spoken to, he mostly ignored her. His boys liked to leer and yell at her when she crossed the courtyard for water, but if she ignored them too, she found they didn't escalate past shouting obscenities. 

But yesterday....yesterday she had spilled a pitcher of arbor gold shipped up from White Harbor, all over Ramsay's shoes and carpets. She had done so good the whole time serving him, had never spilled a drop of water or dropped a crumb of bread, but yesterday, when Skinner had yelled out something about how he thought the serving girls ought to go around with their breasts out, and Ramsay had chided that they should be skinned first, and then left out to fondle, she had gotten so shaky it was impossible to catch the pitcher when it slipped from her hands. 

The sound it had made as it shattered on the floor sounded the exact same as the way a sword sounded when it swung downwards to remove a head from its shoulders. She knew that sound all too well from when the farm had been raided. It was the sound of her death sentence. 

One time, she had been a farmer's daughter. It was less than a few moons ago, but she didn't know that girl anymore. The Dreadfort beat her former self to dust, leaving nothing behind but the occasional echo of her father's voice, her little sister's laughter. Once she had been fond of a boy named Rodger two farms over. Once she had worn her mother's only fine dress and done her hair up like a proper lady, and pretended she was being wed to him. But that was all long ago, and now she was nothing but a servant, no better than a mouse scurrying around the looming dark walls of the Dreadfort. 

No, it was easier to not remember the life before she had been brought here by Bolton soldiers. It was easier to forget, and pretend she had always been a mouse. 

Suddenly, the door cracked open, and the sliver of light that pooled through was almost blinding. 

The laughter of a couple of men filled her ears the moment the door was wedged open, and someone dauntingly familiar strode through. It was Ramsay himself, clad in his dark grey's accented with the bolton pink, the flayed man decorated the leather of his chest, a ruby gleamed in his left ear. None of that was worse than Ramsay's mouth though. 

Ramsay had two lips fat like orange slices, and they were always wet and glistening. His mouth was horrible no matter what he was doing with it- eating, laughing, speaking. The way his lips smacked together never failed to make her stomach lurch. 

Today, those lips curled up into a nasty smile when he caught sight of her awake and alert. Behind Ramsay, the one they called Damon Dance-for-Me was on his heels, trailing behind his lord like a loyal dog. That was all he was anyways, for all intents and purposes. A loyal pet with a nasty whip. 

Damon was easier to look at than Ramsay. He was almost taller than the bastard, with a head of white-blonde hair, and an easy smile. He was well built, not too big and not too skinny, but his eyes were dark and beady, and whenever she looked directly into them, he seemed a lot less handsome. Besides, the whip that always hung at his belt, greased and ready, was a constant reminder of how ugly he was on the inside, regardless of how soft his hair looked. 

Damon was smiling too, doubtless laughing at some cruel joke Ramsay had made outside the door, and for a moment they both carried on without interacting with her. Her heart was thundering away in her chest like hoof beats on a cobblestone road, and it achingly reminded her of the last time she had ridden a horse, trying to escape the raiders that had come for her farm. 

She had thought to take her little sister far away, to White harbor or Barrowton, maybe even south past Moat Calin, to the Riverlands. They were plauged with war, but then again, wasn't the North? 

All those plans had been quashed when the first arrow hit her prized horse in the flank. She had sensed the beast was a mere second from buckling and squishing them both beneath its bulk, so she had grabbed her sister and flung them both from its back. 

Then it was all a blur. A bloody mess of a blur that she didn't ever want to remember clearly. Her sister had been too young to enjoy in bed, too young to serve, and those who Ramsay had no use for never lived very long. Her though...

She had been claimed by a Locke from Oldcastle, at first. He was the fourth son of a third son, and so never married and would never inherit his grandfathers lands, but if it soured him it had been impossible to tell. Her only grace was that it had been him who claimed her after they threw her sister into the icy river, and not Ramsay or one of his boys. The Locke from Oldcastle never gave her his name, barely spoke to her, but he had been strangely sweet and patient when he took her maidenhead, and never hit her, or hurt her on purpose. When they returned to the Dreadfort though, with its numerous brothels and serving girls more robust than herself, the Locke boy had abandoned her, and she had been sent away to serve for Ramsay and all the other nobles in the castle. 

She found no comfort in the thought of him, despite how kind he had been in comparison to the other men. He had still dragged her from her home screaming, had watched as they slit her sisters throat from ear to ear, and had taken her back to his bedroll to rape her each night from her farm to the Dreadfort, and all the passing towns and inns on the way, however gently he had done it. She had no real comforting thoughts anymore, only a single bleak one. 

Soon, probably by nightfall, she would be dead. And dead girls felt no pain. 

Ramsay finally stopped jesting with Damon, and turned his attention onto her. Damon was unhooking the whip from his belt, and she felt sick to her stomach. Every muscle she had clenched in fear, and beads of sweat formed on her brow. If only Damon had the same soft heart as the Locke boy, she might not have been so afraid. But for all his good looks and easy laughs, he was blindingly cruel beneath it all. 

"I would ask for your name," Ramsay said, the hint of mockery hiding low beneath his voice, like a snake in tall grass, "But you won't be needing it for very long anyways." 

Damon snickered at this, and she felt a hand brush across the top of her left thigh. She shuddered involuntarily, and tried her best to suppress it. Any reaction might set them off. 

The irrational part of her thought to beg, but she knew better. Anything she said to Ramsay would quickly be turned around on her. 

Ramsay circled around until he was above her head, and put two meaty hands on either side of her face, "Damon is very good with that whip," he whispered in her ear, "You haven't had the chance to see yet, but you will," he promised darkly, although she had already seen what the whip could do. Damon used it every chance he got, on girls, on dogs, on cupbearrers that took too long fetching wine. Knowing made it worse. 

"You were meant for the dogs, of course," he told her idly, as Damon let the whip slide through his gloved hands again and again, just watching, "But then we got that sack of a dress you were wearing off, and well...Damon could never resist a nice pair of teats," Ramsay sneered, reaching over her to grab at her chest roughly. One hand took a nipple between two fingers and pinched so hard that she yelped and tried wrenching away from him. Ramsay made a sound of disapproval, and did the same to the other one. 

By the time his hands left her, she had tears prickling the corners of her eyes, and was heaving for breath. She felt like she had just ran from the Dreadfort all the way to Hornwood, for how breathless she was. It was fear, a part of her knew that, fear was making her unable to control herself, her reactions. 

Eyes down, head down, don't make eye contact, don't look at him, look at his shoes, head down, eyes down- 

"I thought it was you who liked the look of her teats," Damon chided back at Ramsay, who gave one of them a light handed slap before his hands returned to her face. 

"I like them better when they're covered in mud and leaves from running through the forest," he admitted, as she tried to take her breaths in through her nose, to stop how heavy they sounded. This accomplished nothing but allowing her to smell Ramsay, however, which she soon came to regret. 

Ramsay always smelled like hot copper blood and something sickeningly earthy, and sometimes soap over top of it all. He didn't bathe as regularly as she would expect a lord too, and she assumed he spent more time around dead and dying bodies than most did too. 

"But I decided to let Damon have fun with you for a while, and then the dogs can have whatever's left," he said with a wet smile that showed a row of yellowing teeth. She would punch them all out if her hands were free. 

Instead, she gasped, "Please-" but was cut off by Damon's slender hands on her thighs, pushing them apart. Ramsay slapped her when she begged, not hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough to make her quiet. She had a dull feeling that the both of them were going to get many more please's from her before they were done, and even more than that when Ramsay fed her to his dogs. 

Maybe the gods would be good, and she would die before that happened. 

As Damon tried to pry her legs apart and open, she resisted with muscles that had been hardened from years of farm work, and riding. Not many farmers could afford a good horse, but her father had happened across some gold early in their lives, and so she had never known the farm without the proud ruddy-red horse her father had bought from Barrowton. 

Now the thoughts of towns and horses and gold were so far away they felt silly. Ramsay and Damon let her struggle for a minute, Ramsay probably got some sort of sick satisfaction watching Damon wrestle with her legs, but soon he seemed to tire of it, and then an ungloved hand closed around her face, big enough to obscure her mouth and nose at the same time. 

Ramsay leaned down so his mouth was close to her ear again, "If you don't stop struggling, I'll kill you right here," he snarled, hand firmly over her mouth. For a few seconds it was fine and she kept her legs shut, muscles aching from the effort, but then her air ran out, and her lungs began to burn and she wriggled around in the binds but they wouldn't give. Her only instinct was to get her hands free so she could reach up in attempt to pull Ramsay's hand away from her mouth, like her head refused to acknowledge that her arms were bound and useless. 

She finally couldn't take it any longer, her head was starting to get dizzy, so she relaxed her legs and let Damon spread them as wide as they could go without hurting, and then a little more than that. She shuddered as the cold air hit the soft flesh between her legs, and then shuddered again when she wondered what they were going to do to her. 

Ramsay laughed when she gave in, and removed his hand from her mouth to leave her gasping for air. Tears were tracking down the sides of her face and wetting her hair, but she didn't remember feeling herself start to cry. 

"I haven't bound your legs," Ramsay told her, "Because I know you're going to be a good girl for us, and keep them open, isn't that right?" Damon grinned, and Ramsay's thumb swiped a tear off her cheek. She hated them both more than she knew she could hate. 

"Please, I'm sorry, I'll be good, I'll do whatever you want, I'll never spill anything again, please-" 

Ramsay cut her off with another slap, this one much harder than the last, "Of course you're going to do whatever we want," he said with a hefty amount of annoyance. She was starting to panic, her lungs couldn't catch air properly, her legs were trembling with the effort of staying open beneath Damon's watchful gaze, the nervous sweat building up around her was cooling in the dungeon air, making her shiver. 

"Keep them open, even when it hurts," Damon instructed quietly, sounding much less erractic than he had before, but no less enthused. He gave the inside of her thigh a light pat before he stepped back, and ran the whip through his hands again. 

Then she understood. 

"No," she croaked, her voice almost refusing to work as the dread set in, "Not there, please, anywhere else," she squeaked. She wanted to close her legs again, to curl up into a little ball, to never move as long as she lived. She might have been able to handle the whip to her legs, her back, even her stomach, but there...

"Shhh," Ramsay purred just above her, and she thought wildly that it would be easier if he left, if it was just her and Damon, she could persuade him not to hurt her, to use her for his pleasure instead and then cut her throat like they had her sister. 

Then the whip struck. She never heard it coming, although she should have been familiar with the whistling sound it made as it snapped through the air, but she felt it, all at once, like a spear lancing up through her core. 

She shrieked louder than she ever had in her life, the sound tearing up her throat, tears blinding her eyes so she couldn't see the expression on Damon's face. Ramsay was stroking her cheeks with his fat fingers, but it offered no comfort, it just made everything worse. 

The first hit had felt blinding, white hot like she had been burned. She couldn't even think, so after the whip cracked down she had slammed her legs shut and curled them close to her chest, sobs wracking through her body. 

She wanted to beg for them to stop, but no sound left her lips save a low, pained groan. She would have taken the dogs over this. 

To their credit, what little she could give them, neither man said a word as they let her recover from the first hit. It was a long moment before the pain started to subside to a throbbing ache, and Damon touched her legs again. She took it as a gesture to open them, but she couldn't, her body wouldn't let her. 

Then Ramsay grabbed her nipples again and twisted, this time more viciously than he had before. She arched up as much as the rope would allow her, but no sound left her. That pain was pleasant in comparison to the whip between her legs. 

"Open. Your. Legs," Ramsay snarled, his face close enough to hers that he could have kissed her if he wanted. His breath was hot and foul on her face, and she shakily opened her legs again if for no reason other than to make him step away from her. 

She opened them slowly, and Damon lightly pet the inside of her thigh and breathed, "Good girl," so softly that she had to open her eyes. If she had hoped for his expression to be one of distaste or remorse for what he was doing, she would have been achingly incorrect. He looked ecstatic, like a little boy being given a wooden sword for the first time, eager to hack a straw target to pieces with it. 

"Damon, please," she whimpered, lifting her head enough to make eye contact with him. He never looked as cruel as Ramsay did, never as daunting, despite the fact that he was the one hurting her. 

Ramsay didn't like her pleading being directed at someone else, that was apparent when his big meaty fist wound tightly through her hair and shoved her head back down to the table, hard enough to rattle her teeth. She let out a small whine despite herself, the back of her head aching. 

"He's not in control here," Ramsay growled, his fist still in her hair, "I am. If you want it to stop, you ask _me."_

She gave a frantic little nod, or as much of one as she could give in her current situation.

Ramsay looked away from her then, and back to Damon, to give him a single nod. She let out a sound of protest but no words got the chance to form before the whip was down again. This time the very tail end of it struck her skin, and she writhed in her binds so badly that her arms burned in agony. She couldn't even see for a moment, couldn't feel that she had slammed her legs shut again, couldn't hear herself crying, although she knew from the way her chest was heaving that she was. 

Ramsay had no more leniency in him, it seemed, and unlike his patience after the first stroke of the whip, he immediately expected her legs open again. Damon grabbed them roughly and this time she let him. They were shaking uncontrollably, and she couldn't have resisted even if she still wanted to. 

Ramsay leaned down close again, but this time he had a knife in his hand, so close to her eye that she was temporarily blinded by the flash of silver. His voice was still and quiet when he spoke. 

"If you shut your legs one more time, I'm going to start with your eyes. I'll cut your eyelids off first," he threatened, lightly tracing the knife point around the orbit of her eye, "And then we'll see how long it takes for you to beg me to poke them out." 

Neither man was laughing anymore, but Damon's cheeks were flushed red and Ramsay was clearly the most in his environment he had been since she met him. This was his favorite pastime, she realized bleakly. She was just entertainment to him. 

"Keep them open, pretty," Damon suggested darkly, as he stepped back again, whip in hand. 

The lashes didn't get easier. Each time the whip kissed her cunt she silently begged to die, but soon it was going to be not so silent. She was struggling harder than she ever had in her life to keep her legs spread, but every time the whip cracked down on her flesh, they twitched inwards. 

She wasn't being quiet either, but if either man cared they didn't do anything about it. Her screams were no longer reserved for the lashes anymore, they were just constant, same with her tears. Her hair and ears were soaked from her crying, Ramsay's hands occasionally wiping them off her cheeks, but otherwise he just held her head in place. 

Every two or three strokes, Ramsay would take her by the hair and lift her head up painfully, forcing her to look at the mess she had become. Her flesh was red and puffy where the whip had touched down, lines of raised welts starting to form where the whip had landed. Ruined, she was ruined. She cried harder each time she saw, and each time she saw it got worse and worse, until her cunt was burning from the pain, and she swore she would die if Damon hit her again. 

But he did, again and again, and it took her until lash fifteen to realize that Ramsay had been breathily counting the strokes behind her. She had one clear thought amidst the pain and chaos inside her mind, and it was only to wonder how high they were going to go. 

If they meant to go another fifteen, she felt she would have nothing left between her legs to strike anymore. 

After the twentieth, a particularity cruel twist of the whip that felt like Damon put the entirety of his strength behind it, Ramsay held up a hand and Damon dropped his arm. 

She let out a strangled sob of relief, almost choking on it. The pain was unbelieveable, worse than anything she had ever felt in her life. Ramsay hadn't shown her the end product yet, and so she could only speculate the state she was in. 

Then Ramsay spoke, filling the airy dungeon room with his wormy voice, "How about you show her what an expert you are with your tongue," Ramsay suggested to Damon, who, to her surprise, went slightly pink at the mention. She instantly knew that being one of Ramsay's boys still didn't protect them from his perversions, no matter how cruel they were themselves. 

The defiant streak in her that was still alive wanted to ask how many times Ramsay had stuffed his cock down Damon Dance-for-Me's throat, but she knew it would only earn her worse punishment than what she already recieved. Damon was being surprisingly calm, despite being the one whipping her. 

Damon dropped to his knees, grabbed her hips and pulled her to the edge of the table. Her legs hung limply off the side, slightly spread. Damon gave her one last look before his mouth hit her center, and she curled her hands into the wooden table so hard she felt her nails splinter. 

Girls older than her had whispered scandalously about how some men liked to kiss their ladies between the legs, and although it had seemed strange to her at the time, she had always been told it was a delightful feeling. Sometimes she lay awake at night, sweaty beneath her blankets, and pictured Rodger pressing his lips against her there. She would feel ashamed of it in the morning, but had wanted it regardless. 

Rodger had never so much as kissed her on the cheek, and the boy from Oldcastle had little and less interest in pleasing her. But now she knew what it felt like- and it was worse than the whip. 

Damon's tongue and lips were hot, and when they pressed against her tender, swollen flesh, still burning with pain, it seared like she was being lit on fire. She cried loudly and rocked around in her binds, desperate to escape the heat his mouth trapped against her. Ramsay laughed behind her, and raised her head once again so that she might watch Damon at work. 

His eyes were closed as he ran his tongue between her swollen lips, doubtlessly hitting that bundle of nerves that should have set off bursts of pleasure inside of her, but now she could barely feel it, all she felt was the pain, and how hot her skin was. 

"Doesn't that feel good," Ramsay teased her, his hands idly groping at her chest again as she sobbed, "Isn't Damon so kind? Treating you so well after you were such a disobedient little whore?" he whispered, his hands only leaving her breasts when she nodded tearfully. 

"Tell him it feels good. Beg him not to stop." Ramsay instructed, standing upright again to fix his pale eyes on her teary face. She sniffed, trying to regain enough composure to do as he said. 

"P-please don't stop," she got out, and then burst into another round of sobs when he hummed enthusiastically against her. 

Her fingertips felt wet with blood and just as splintered, and it seemed like it could go on forever, and he would never stop- 

Until he did. 

He looked up at Ramsay, his lips glistening, and grinned, "Who knew, the little bitch still has enough feeling down there to get wet for us," and together they both laughed at her. 

The relief of his mouth leaving her was pure joy, but was completely elapsed when she heard Ramsay's buckle come undone behind her. 

"No...please..." she groaned, her legs twitching as the pain crept back up on her. She couldn't handle anymore, she would rather be dead, if either of them asked if she wanted to die she would say yes, she would- 

She lurched up again as something hard and hot slapped against her center, igniting the pain again. 

While she was busy praying to every god that existed that Ramsay would use her mouth instead, or just kill her, they had switched places. 

Damon was above her now, whispering soft praises in her ear and threading his hand gently through her hair as Ramsay drew his fat cock up and down her slick. He wasn't as long as the Oldcastle boy had been, but he was about twice as thick. The head of his cock was dark purple, the veins on the length of it light blue and very prominent. She suddenly looked up at Damon and whimpered. 

"Can it be you instead? Please, please, I'll listen I'll be so good, just don't let him-" 

"Shhh," Damon cut her off, fingers ghosting over her lips. Ramsay looked too enthralled by what he was doing to pay attention, but she knew he was all the same. 

"It's Lord Ramsay's turn, sweet. Then you can have me," he said with a grin, as if it was meant to be reassuring. It was not. She would not survive Ramsay long enough to get to Damon. 

Ramsay seemed to be satisfied then, and he lined himself up and shoved inside of her in one quick motion. 

It was not as bad as she had been picturing. Every time his hips hit against her tender lips, she shuddered in pain, more tears leaking from her eyes, but Damon's whip hadn't ruined her insides, and so it was not quite as painful as it could have been. At least at first. 

For a while, Ramsay seemed content to pump away inside of her, his cock dragging against her walls at a steady pace. It was difficult to adjust to his girth, but not nearly as brutal as the whip, and so she laid there limply and let him fuck her. 

Then he got bored, and he stopped up all at once, "Are you feeling neglected?" Ramsay cooed down at her, and she shook her head violently, knocking Damon's hands away from her hair. 

"No, I'm fine Lord Bolton, this is fine, please..." 

Ramsay's eyes narrowed, "Now now, pet. I know Damon didn't make you cum, so its only right that I try, isn't it?" and all she gave him for a response was a dry sob. Her chest felt so, so, heavy. 

Damon shushed her again, his hands trailing down her neck and giving a light squeeze before moving away again. 

Ramsay brought a hand down to her, and pushed between her pink, swollen lips to find where she was most sensitive. She cried out in pain from the way his dry fingers brushed against her beaten and abused skin. When he found what he was looking for, he began to circle it slowly, causing strangled groans of pain to erupt from her throat. 

One of Damon's particularly hard strikes had fit in between her lips, to raise a welt right where Ramsay was busy touching, and she was going wild in a savage attempt to throw him off of her as he slid his big hands against it repeatedly. 

"Stop fighting," Damon advised, hand stroking her cheek, "Isn't this supposed to feel wonderful for women?" he asked empathetically. 

Eventually, after what could have been minutes or hours, Ramsay's guttural sounds reached an apex, and with an animalistic grunt he shoved into her one last time, and then slid back out, a sticky trail following in his wake. She was almost grateful for it to be over, almost, when his hand came down hard between her legs in a vicious back-handed slap. 

She let out a sound like a dying animal and lurched away from him, "Stop!" She screeched.

"You hear that Ramsay?" Damon asked, sounding disappointed, "I haven't even had my turn and she wants us to stop." 

Ramsay made a noise of disapproval, "Whores are never grateful for what they're given," he sneered, "Maybe another ten lashes and she'll learn to take what she's given." 

She let out a pathetic, broken little noise, and resigned to die. She was going to lie there and suffer and take whatever pain they gave her until she died, and there was nothing anyone could do to help her. 

Then Ramsay retired to the corner, to grab a hunting knife. It swam in her vision, but she couldn't even find it in herself to care anymore, about what he was going to do with the knife. 

She was vaguely aware that Damon was busy fucking her, just barely, but she couldn't feel it anymore. Then Ramsay started slicing with the knife, murmuring something about how he needed the dogs to get the scent of blood first, and when she looked down at herself it was with the last sickening lurch of her stomach she would ever feel. 

Her torso was in red ribbons, blood oozing from every slice to pool beneath her on the table, and he had moved to her arms when the ringing in her ears suddenly stopped, and she heard Damon give a hiss. 

"Too deep," he muttered to Ramsay, who's face came into vision for a second, and then left again. She started to feel light, lighter than she had in hours, maybe days, and one of them said something to her, but she couldn't hear anymore, and when she closed her eyes, found she was unable to open them again. 

**Author's Note:**

> So uhhh this one really got away from me :/


End file.
